


The Force of Gravity

by BigSciencyBrain



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Attempt at noir, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigSciencyBrain/pseuds/BigSciencyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a darker Neptune, a darker Eli Navarro, and Veronica's pretty sure that she's gotten darker too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Up to _Not Pictured_ (2x22)

Veronica discovers that one of Hearst's many swimming pools is empty late at night. There's a lifeguard on duty but he or she is usually trying to read at the same time and they learn soon enough that she's a strong swimmer. No one else comes to this pool; it's old and shallow, the tiles are chipped, and it's in the furthest corner of the Physical Education building. She hears that they planning on tearing it down to make room for an indoor soccer field, but that just makes her swim harder.

Water is omnipresent in Neptune. There's a pool in nearly every backyard and the population grows up with one form of water or another. She may have learned to swim before she learned to walk, but she'd have to ask her father about that one. It's something she takes for granted now. How to kick her feet, move her arms, come up for a breath and then keep going.

She didn't realize until college, until she found this pool, that water makes the rest of the world go away. It thunders past her ears; her heart pounds in her chest until she thinks it will break; and all that matters is getting from one end to the other. She stops to change strokes, holding onto the edge and wiping the water out of her eyes just enough to look around. Old habits die hard and she knows too well how to stay aware of her surroundings. The lifeguard is reading a book by Hawthorne; she files away the title for future reference before sliding her goggles back down and resuming her swim.

Life is clear when she's in the water. It's boiled down to the simplest of elements and there are none of the _complications_ that she faces on dry land. When she's swimming, it's easy to forget the hurt in Logan's voice that she can't do anything about and the anger in his eyes because he thinks she just doesn't want to. But scholarships have to be kept and that means her grades come before boyfriends, no matter how epic they may be.

He wonders if she's pulling away from him deliberately. Sometimes, she wonders the same thing. Epics are long, epics are boring, and in an entire semester of Classical Literature, every single one that she suffered through ended badly. Still, he says he's changed and she believes him. Until she stops by and smells Kendall's perfume on the sofa pillows.

Logan blames it on Dick, saying that he reeks of her whenever he comes to see Logan and escape Casa De Killer. It's the pot calling the kettle black, but she doesn't remind him.

There are no tears over the death of Aaron Echolls and only a few over Cassidy Casablancas, most of which were shed by Mac. Veronica stays silent and focuses on the living, because she's still trying to remember that her father isn't dead. Still trying to forget the way she felt when the plane exploded and took her world with it.

She swims until all of those thoughts are too tired to keep up with her, leaving them behind to drown in her wake. Only once her mind is quiet does she reach up to the edge and pull herself out. She waves to the lifeguard on the way out, knowing they're glad to shut off the lights and go home, but knowing isn't enough to stop her from coming every night and swimming right up until the clock tells her to go home.

In the shower, she lathers up her hair to keep it from turning green and keeps her eyes closed tight. She makes lists in her head of everything she has to do. Assignments, papers to write, chapters to read, errands to run for her father. She tries to keep the list full enough that there isn't time for idle hands or an idle mind.

Whether or not it's actually over with Logan, she doesn't know. Maybe this was their last fight, maybe not. Maybe he was telling her the truth about Dick bringing the smell of Kendall's perfume on his clothes and his skin. And maybe he really doesn't grieve for his father. Logan says that being alone is the best thing that ever happened to him. On his own, his own man; he can figure out what he wants from his life now and how he's going to get it.

Veronica's pretty sure that what Logan wants with his life isn't even in the same hemisphere as what she wants, let alone in the same city. He talks of making movies sometimes, when he's had a few beers, as a producer rather than an actor. He wants to know how it all comes together and all about the people listed in the credits who never see the red carpet. That means Hollywood, that means Los Angeles, and she's pretty sure she'd rather stay in Neptune, no matter how much she wants out.

She fought it at first. Tried to keep them from tearing apart like two halves of a zipper, but tooth by tooth they slipped and she knows the end is coming, that maybe it's already come and gone. But she's not sure how she feels about that, if she wants to try one last time to patch them back together or if it's come time to let go.

Running is her trademark and she can't ignore the question that she's doing it again. That she's pushing him away from her so he won't hurt her when he decides to leave. Stop loving him first, that's the trick. It's crazy logic that isn't and she knows it. She just doesn't know how to stop. Instead, she swims in the old, rundown pool at nights and spends too long shampooing her hair to avoid getting dressed again.

Even once the shampoo is long gone, she wastes time with lotions and blow-drying. Despite all of it, she still catches the smell of chlorine as she leaves the locker room and makes her way through the darkened building. It's nearly midnight and the lights have all gone out by the time she slings her gym bag over her shoulder and fishes out her car keys. The taser is never far away and her father's lectures ring in her head for hours afterwards. College campus, Red Zone, rapist who likes to cut off his victim's hair; she knows each of the horror stories by heart now.

Her mind is still deliciously unoccupied as she gets into the car, locks the doors, and unpacks her camera. Midnight might be time for peace and quite for most people, but for the seedy underbelly of Neptune, the night is young and she's due for an impromptu photo shoot.

She pretends not to notice, or mind, that her father is giving her fluff cases nowadays. Cheating husbands, unfaithful wives, those are still their bread and butter. She pretends that she doesn't know there are other, more exciting cases she's not supposed to know about. Nearly getting herself killed two years running apparently makes her father nervous and he's keeping her on the sidelines for now. Part of her wishes she could thank him because she's down two lives and hasn't even reached her twenty-first birthday.

Neptune seems darker these days. The good die young and the guilty get acquitted. And the law, the authority, and everyone who should be control, can't even figure out what's going on soon enough to keep the hand basket from getting left on the expressway to Hell.

Then again, maybe she's the one who's gotten darker. The image in the viewfinder blurs a little but she knows it's not the camera. Picture taken and one more marriage is going to be in shambles as soon as the pre-nup isn't an issue. She leaves the camera lens resting against the car door; transfixed by the idea that one tiny piece of film is going to change this man's life. His affair certainly didn't make enough of a dent for him to pull his head out of the sand. Blind until forced to see. The human race has survived by putting off the inevitable and she's no exception.

She's putting off the final conversation with Logan. The conversation where she asks if it's over and has to face the words and emotions that will pour from him like the Red Sea crashing back to drown her. She needs a Moses to raise his arms and keep her head above water.

Her father has been conspicuously non-committal about Logan. She knows that he remembers that summer, the broken lamp, and everything that Logan didn't do right. As much as she tried to patch those old wounds, she knows they never really faded completely. He's a father first and that means he'll worry about his daughter until one or both of them are dead and probably afterward. She no longer expects him to get over it any more than she expects Logan to change his spots.

The camera is about to be disassembled and go back into its protective case when she recognizes the paint job on a motorcycle parked across the street. A motorcycle that should be at the bottom of the Pacific right now.

Curiosity wins like it always does and she does a U turn, pulling up behind the bike and leaving the safety of the car behind to get a closer look. It's the same, she's sure of it. Sure of the lines and the leather and every inch of its familiarity. Everything's new and it glistens like a dirty diamond under the streetlights. She trails the tip of her finger against some of the chrome; it comes up clean and warm, which means the bike hasn't traveled far or sat still for long.

"Admiring my paint job?" The question is familiar but the voice sounds different.

"How'd you find it?" she counters smoothly, surprised that she managed not to jump at the sound of his voice.

Eli Navarro steps out of the shadows; she tries not to wonder why he was in the darkened alley in the first place. He's darker too. Dark and gritty and a little too noir even for Neptune. All black leather and tattoos etched into dark skin, he's nearly a shadow himself, moving over the sidewalk and swinging his leg over the bike.

It occurs to her that she should ask how long he's been out of prison but she doesn't. There are words better left unsaid and he's got that look about him that means she needs to heed that rule more than usual tonight.

"You're out late, V," he comments casually, ignoring her question as he straddles the bike with confident ease.

"Cheating husband across the street about to get skinned alive by the divorce lawyer." The words don't come out as light and funny as she'd intended and she almost wishes she could try again.

"Sheriff's got you doing kiddie stuff again."

"It's not..." That's as far as she gets because it's true and she knows it, but she doesn't want to talk about Aaron Echolls or Cassidy Casablancas or any of the very good reasons for the kiddie assignments. She's just glad to be back in the business rather than left to wallow in food service.

"Right." He looks away and his voice is devoid of emotion. The silence is about to become uncomfortable when he turns back to her. "Is it you that smells like chlorine or am I having some sorta flashback?"

"Swimming. There's this pool," she apologizes lamely.

"I forgot...you like 'em with pools and SUVs. It's all coming back to me now." There's an edge in his voice that's new and now she knows he's gotten darker and sharper around the edges.

"It's on campus," she tells him coldly and hopes he notices the ice in her voice.

He does. There's wariness in his look and his hand stops, not turning the key to start the engine. "Heard you were back with Echolls."

"Got tired of clean sheets. A girl needs variety."

His laughter is low and bitter; he doesn't believe her or if he does, he simply doesn't care. "Let me guess, your boy went looking for greener pastures. Something in the Laker Girl category."

It doesn't surprise her that he knows about Kendall; Logan's not exactly low profile, being Neptune's favored topic of idle conversation. But she catches a note of derision when he says _Laker Girl_ , like it doesn't quite fit in his mouth without choking him and she wonders what he has against women like Kendall. The words are out before she can stop them and the bitterness is palpable. "Like you would even think twice if she spread her legs."

His eyebrow goes up. "That a yes?"

"That's an I don't care who Logan fucks." She has every intention of turning around and going back to her car. This conversation isn't fun or entertaining and she wants it to end before he notices the cracks in her veneer.

"So you don't know. But you're going to assume he is because you see shit like this everyday." He nods toward the hotel where the bastard had his tryst. "Is it all men that you hate or just the ones in Neptune?"

"Are they different once I cross the city limits? Cause if they are, I'm gone."

"Come on, V. Apples don't fall too far from the tree. If you wanted to make a go with Echolls, shoulda looked closer at where he came from."

In the back of her mind, she's pretty sure she should slap him across the face for that comment. For the insinuation that Logan and Aaron aren't that different, that all that separates them are years and a name. The future resembles the past and Logan's destined to follow in that murdering bastard's footsteps. She doesn't slap him because those very questions have kept her up at night and she's not sure which she's more afraid of, ending up like Lilly or ending up like Lynn.

"Have sex with me." She doesn't recognize her own voice and knows that she sounds completely insane.

"Que?" The shock is reflected in his eyes and he's pulling away from her, waiting for the punch line.

"In the alley, up against the wall, whatever you want. I'll get down on my knees, you can pull my hair and call me a bitch...anything. Just say yes."

He shakes his head and his hand moves for the ignition again. "You've lost your fucking mind."

Catching his arm, she stops him from starting the engine. "Unless you got plenty of play in prison."

"Fuck you," he growls.

"The harder the better." She ends it at that, her pride is already lowered far enough that it's dragging in the gutter behind her, and leaves him sitting on the bike. The alley is darker than she'd anticipated and her heart is in her throat with each step. There's room enough for her to stand, back against the wall, where the ground isn't completely filthy. She waits and wishes that she smoked, because there's nothing to do with her hands except shove them into her pockets.

She almost changes her mind when the bike doesn't start and he doesn't drive away. But it's too late then because she can see his shoulders outlined by the streetlight and he's pressing her hard against the rough brick.

"Turn around," he orders sharply.

Her body is already exhausted from her swim so she doesn't fight him. Hands up to brace herself, brick cutting into her palms, she tries to breathe as he works the button and zipper of her jeans. It's tawdry and dirty and she knows she's in over her head when he tugs her jeans and panties down over her hips. He's solid against her back, hot breath against her neck. One hand finds its way under her shirt and pulls her bra down to get to her bare breast. Teeth bite down on the flesh at the base of her neck at the same time his hand slide between her legs, feeling every inch of her.

She bites her tongue and closes her eyes as he presses her harder against the wall, simultaneously pulling back against her hips so that she's arched toward him. His thumb is rough, flicking over her nipple mercilessly, and she can feel that she's getting wet when his finger dips inside her. More teeth sinking into her skin; his fingers sunk completely into her as the heel of his palm grinds against her.

But this isn't what she'd expected.

His fingers are moving easily, slick with her desperation to feel something, when he pulls his hand from her breast and braces himself against the wall. There's no gentleness in his touch, no waiting or hesitating when he pushes into her. He's breathing hard and nearly slamming her into the wall with each thrust. Spanish words tumble into her ear as his fingers find her clit again, making tiny circles and tipping her world on end.

"Harder," she manages to get out before she's pressed against the wall again.

He obliges and she can feel the brick digging deeper into her skin. It's all that makes sense. Brick against skin and cool air hitting her stomach. His hand and his cock buried inside her don't make any sense at all. At a basic level, she knows the mechanics of what's happening but even the reality of that thought is lost when she realizes she's going to come. Her breathless moan is followed by several thrusts that she can feel through her entire body and then he's leaning against her, panting and pressing soft kisses against the back of her neck.

"Why?" he asks, barely loud enough to be a whisper.

Because he wouldn't call her in the morning, because he wouldn't break when she didn't call him back, and because there was nothing epic about them. All the answers she has will take too much time. Longer than it takes him to pull his jeans back up and button them, longer than it takes her to reclaim her own clothing and reorient her bra. She's acutely aware that he never kissed her lips, not even once, and somehow that makes it impersonal.

Even once their clothes are back in place, she keeps her words to herself. He doesn't need to know that she wanted a clean break, a sharp line between being part of a couple and leaving it. A moment she could point to and say, that was the end. It was the deal-breaker, the single event she could use to make Logan see that they were over. Like a whore, she'd turned around and let Eli Navarro fuck her hard up against a wall in a dirty alley. There was no part of that that wouldn't make Logan see a hundred shades of red.

He's watching her when she turns around, not giving up on getting an answer to his question. She keeps her mouth shut and shakes her head just enough to tell him she can't. Silently, he takes her hand and turns it over to expose her wrist. His lips are warm and soft against the sensitive skin; his thumb brushes bits of brick from her skin. "One of these days, Veronica...let me do you right. No alleys, no getting back at Echolls."

"Weevil-"

"I want to see you on your knees." There's the edge again. The ferocity that didn't used to be there and makes her heart beat just a little bit faster.

"As long as you promise to pull my hair," she says softly and pulls her wrist away from his lips.

"Count on it, chica." There's a twinkle in his eyes, just the barest hint of the old Weevil showing through before he turns away.

She stays in the shadows until the sound of the bike is long gone and she's beginning to shiver. Her car and camera are where she left them, safe and normal. When she gets home, she leaves her camera on the kitchen island to let her father know she got the money shot. Face washed and teeth brushed, she collapses into her bed and buries herself as deep under the covers as she can get. Tomorrow, she'll have to face Logan and make sure he knows that it's over. As she drifts off to sleep, pretending those aren't tears on her cheeks, she realizes that it will be easier now.


	2. Chapter 2

It doesn't take long for Logan Echolls to appear. He's a whirlwind of squealing tires in that bumblebee SUV of his and Eli thinks that if any brakes in the world deserve overtime pay and a long vacation, those do. Barbed curses spew from Echolls' mouth even before the door opens enough for them to be heard above the music blasting from the portable stereo. He waits, leaning against the table with the tool chest, as Logan storms into the garage bay spoiling for a fight.

"What the fuck is this? You planning on nailing all of my girlfriends? Is that what it takes to get you off?" Logan's face is flushed and his eyes are a little too puffy to have not been crying. The odor of whiskey hangs off his clothes and on his breath.

"Might help if you tell me which one you're talking about," he says without flinching.

"Veronica."Logan chokes on her name and the tears almost come back. "Is it true?"

Eli shakes his head slowly and examines the grease under his fingernails. "Should know better than to trust Veronica Mars, man. You tellin' me she's been nothing but honest with you? How about that time she thought you killed Lilly?"

"For all of five seconds." Logan's voice is hoarse and frayed, like a rope about to snap.

"Long enough for her to whisper it in my ear." He lets that sink in just long enough. "Why'd you think I was after you, huh? That night on the bridge. Think I just happened to ride by with my boys? There ain't no coincidences in Neptune, you know that."

"She wouldn't..." The protest is feeble.

"Wouldn't what? Know that she had no evidence on you...know that you were the son of a rich, white movie star? You would've walked just like you did for Felix."

"I didn't kill Felix."

"And you didn't kill Lilly either." He shrugs and forces himself to stop picking at the grease on his skin. "But she didn't know that, did she?"

Logan's floundering for solid ground and it shows on his face. Never did have much skill at poker, with or without the chips. "I don't believe you."

"Ask yourself one question, did you really think she could be with you? Knowing what your dad was, knowing you're just like him." Even with his voice lowered, the words echo like gunshots in the quiet garage. Picking up a dirty rag, he rubs at some of the stains and looks up at Logan with a bitter smile. "So yeah. It's true. She came to me, like she always does when she needs it done right, and I fucked her in some filthy alley off Ocean. You must really suck, cause she practically begged for it."

He's surprised he got that far before Logan throws the first punch. It stings, cuts his lip on his teeth, and rattles his brains around a fair bit. Wiping the blood away with his thumb, he simply smiles and waits for the next shot.

"Guess prison was good for you. You used to have a glass jaw," Logan sneers. Always a talker, that one.

The second punch connects just as hard; he savors the shooting pain of what will be a black eye in the morning. He refuses to agree with Logan, refuses to say aloud that prison was good for him. That it stripped away the tattered shreds of any hope, any optimism, any blind faith in the goodness or justice of mankind that he might have had going in. He went into prison as Weevil but he came out as Eli Navarro, and he's a whole new animal.

"What is this?" Logan asks when he still hasn't tried to hit back.

"Just lettin' you warm up. You gonna start putting some weight behind those or do I need to pretend they hurt?"

Logan pulls back for another punch that Eli can see a mile away. He ducks back out of the way easily, grabs the handle of the torque wrench he deliberately left sitting on the edge of the table, and whips the business end of the wrench across Logan's face. There's shock and pain staring out at him but he just smiles again, tasting his own blood in his mouth. Logan's looking around for a weapon of some kind. Eli beats him to it and slams the wrench down onto his forearm. Now he sees what he wants to see. Fear; enough of it that it cuts through the rage and the pain and seeps into Logan's consciousness that this was a profoundly bad idea.

"Maybe you're right," he tells Logan casually, enjoying the sight of him cradling the arm that's probably broken. "See, I learned a few things in prison. Might want to keep that in mind."

"You son of a bitch." Wincing visibly at the pain in his arm, he takes a step back to get out of range of the wrench.

"I'm the son of a bitch? I wasn't the one who tossed a sick old lady out on the street, was I?"

"What are you..." The question dies as understanding dawns. "That wasn't-"

Eli doesn't let him finish. "I'll fuck your girlfriend if I damn well feel like it. Hell, you'll bend over and grab your ankles if I tell you to. Do we understand each other?" His grip tightens on the wrench just in case the idiot doesn't, but he simply glares and limps back to the glaring yellow atrocity. Eli's sick and tired of 09er bullshit and now he knows it doesn't end after high school does. It never ends. He'll always be the dark gunk underneath the shoes of people like Echolls.

Alone again, he runs the wrench under the tap and then pours bleach over it. The shop lights are more than enough to scan the floor and equipment for stray drops of blood. Even if they find blood on the floor or any of the tools, odds are it'll belong to one of the mechanics rather than Echolls'. They're welcome to look. He learned a thing or two in prison.

He rolls back under the car and gathers up the tools he used. The whole engine needs to be broken down and built back up; that's what Angel's paying him for now that he's a felon and has no choice but to bite his tongue and join the family business. Everywhere he goes, that criminal record will follow and even though he knows it was worth it, it tastes sour in his mouth.

The time card he clocks out with isn't his. But he'd pay that much to see Echolls get beat up any day and Vargas is an asshole who thinks a woman needs to be kept in her place with a fist. There's no motorcycle waiting for him in the parking lot; he walks the eight blocks to where he left it outside a house still full of lights and voices. He's up the back stairs, quiet as a shadow, and slips inside. The party's downstairs but his alibi is asleep in her bed.

Stripping down to skin, he eases into the bed gently enough that she stirs but doesn't wake immediately. Another few moments, he waits and rolls onto his side, pretending to sleep.

"Did you go somewhere, baby?" Marla asks sleepily.

Making a show of yawning, he rolls over and snakes his arm around her waist. "Why would I leave when everything I want is right here?" That's all he has to say to make her smile and she's wide-eyed with trust in him. When the cops come knocking, and he knows they will, she'll swear on a Bible that he was with her all night.

She snuggles up against him, stroking his arm and making those little sighs that make him want to break things. He doesn't, of course, because she serves a purpose and he's not done with her yet. Marla is all coy smiles and flirting; she makes sure he notices her breasts whenever he sees her. He tells her what she wants to hear more often than not, whispering it against her skin without meaning a single word. There are nights that he wants to, but once they're spent and he's free to roll away without hurting her feelings, he's just as empty as he was before.

What she doesn't do is ask him to press her up against a wall and do whatever he wants to her. She doesn't say _harder_ because Marla is all about sweet and slow. It's hard not to be impatient with her constant sweetness and he's beginning to wonder if he was wrong.

Marla was soft and gentle and he thought that's what he needed to make him feel human again, but when he closes his eyes, he doesn't see her. There's a too skinny blonde whose skin tastes like betrayal stuck in his head. It's her voice he hears; her flashing, angry eyes that he sees. She's sharp angles and porcupine quills. Veronica Mars is a lot of things but soft will never be one of them. He's beginning to crave someone with teeth and claws, someone who'll cut into him until he feels alive.

He wishes he didn't want her, wishes that he could bury the memories of her beneath sex or alcohol. Wishes that he'd done the smart thing and left her standing in that alley. Left without knowing the feel of her body against his because now it's all he can think about. All the soft caresses and sweet Marlas in the world weren't ever going to get under his skin the way Veronica does.

While he may not always do the smart thing, he's not stupid either. He knows Veronica isn't his for the taking. The alley was about leverage, about making sure she had the firepower she needed. Even knowing that it wasn't him she wanted, just anyone but Echolls, he'd been angry and reckless enough to take the offer. He did it because he wanted to be the one holding the knife in Logan's back. It was just a bonus that for one brief, desperate moment pressed against her, he felt alive.

It turns out that revenge is still bittersweet.


	3. Chapter 3

There's a note on the fridge from her father and Veronica's heart nearly stops when she reads it. She stuffs it in her pocket, heading back out the door without putting away any of the groceries she brought in. They won't go bad and they can wait for her to find out just what the hell happened.

Driving to the hospital feels like a something a girlfriend would do. She convinces herself that it's not. Her relationship with Logan ended with harsh words, a bit of screaming, and she's mentally placing her bets that he was admitted for alcohol poisoning. He'd already started into the Jack Daniel's well before he told her to find the door and use it. So it's not a girlfriend thing, it's just a friend thing and if her father left her a note then he probably thinks she should go.

Hospitals remind her of Meg and Abel and all those kids on the bus who didn't make it. Cold tile floors and sterile walls bring back memories of her father, battered and burned from coming to her rescue. She used to think that Fate had a sense of humor. Now she thinks Fate is a lie. There is no right foot in, no shaking it about; they were born to die and molder away, that's what it's all about.

Inside the hospital room looks unreal. She can see Logan through the doorway with the TV remote in his hand and an annoyed expression on his face because the show he wanted isn't on. That's normal. What isn't normal is the bruise that starts at his right ear and ends at his nose, the split lip, and the cast on his arm.

She doesn't have to ask what happened now. As the temperature in the hallway seems to drop fifteen degrees, she realizes that she has a pretty good idea of who did the damage. She's horrified, not sure if she's more angry with Logan for being an idiot or herself for not thinking he'd go after Weevil. Bracing for the lashing that's sure to come, she raps the door with her knuckles and enters the room.

"Look who's come to see the fruits of her labors." Logan tosses the remote onto the bed and leans back against the pillows.

Forcing herself to smile, she keeps her chin up and takes a seat in the chair meant for visitors. "I can't take credit, Logan. This was all you."

"Right. Because I get my jaw broken by Eli Navarro every third Tuesday. Good fun." He winces as he speaks and she notices that he's not really opening his mouth; his words are slurred. "Guess he picked up a few tricks in prison. That and he had this tool…thing. What are they called? A wrench or something. Hurts like a motherfucker, whatever it is."

"What were you thinking?" The knife in her gut at seeing him like this is beginning to twist and a herd of shoulds stampede through her mind. Should have known he'd do something stupid, should have given him some other reason for breaking up. Should have gone straight home after she finished swimming.

"It seemed like the thing to do at the time." His voice is tired. "You're the one who had sex with him."

"I told you-"

"I don't care that it was just a one time thing, Veronica." The glare is accusing and she flinches because she deserves it. "I don't care that it was eye-opening and made you realize that you didn't love me. Or whatever bullshit you rambled on about last night. It's Weevil, Veronica. Weevil. God. I'm going to be eating pudding and jello for a fucking month because you had to get your freak on with that asshole."

Her teeth bite down almost involuntarily on her lower lip, keeping her mouth shut, keeping the words inside. Nothing he says changes anything at all and there are enough painkillers in his system to make him say pretty much anything. She wants to throw the blame off of her shoulders and back onto his, but she can't even bring herself to shrug. She can't tell him it's all his own stupid fault because she knows Logan and she should have seen this coming.

She should have warned him that Weevil had changed.

"Thanks for coming. Could you go now?" Logan closes his eyes, settling into the bed. No more encouragement is needed; she's almost to the door when he speaks again. "Stay away from him, Veronica."

It's not the words that stop her in her tracks; it's the genuine fear in his voice. There's no response to that; she leaves without saying goodbye and her mind is racing as she finds her way out of the building. Logan and Weevil were no strangers to fighting; beating each other up had been nearly a weekly event in high school. Had she counted on Logan being able to hold his own? Or had she simply hoped that a high school diploma would mean he'd think before going in with fists swinging. In the cold light of the hospital, she can't answer those questions. She can't even remember why she'd abandoned her sanity the night before.

Groceries have been put away when she gets home. She reaches out to set her car keys on the counter but can't convince her fingers to let go. Broken bones aren't going to go unnoticed; this wasn't a fight between high school kids. Why would Weevil risk another strike?

"Veronica?" Her father comes out of his bedroom, still damp around the edges from a recent shower. "Sheriff Lamb called. He wants to ask you a few questions about what happened to Logan."

"That's…very Lamb. Ask the one person who doesn't know anything." Finally forcing her hand to relinquish the keys, she busies herself with making tea.

"Did you go see Logan?"

"I did." The water sloshes in the kettle and she knows that he's staring at her while she pretends to peruse the available flavors.

"Honey."

"I really don't know anything, Dad. Except that Logan is a moron, but all of Neptune's figured that out by now." Fingernails tap nervously against her mug until she realizes that it makes her look like a liar; she forces her hands to be still.

"Did you two break up?"

"Last night. He was drinking when I left."

"Any idea what he and Eli Navarro would have that needs settling with violence?" His voice is too soft and too concerned for him to know the truth.

"They never needed a reason to beat each other up in high school. Is that supposed to change?" Boiling water gives her a few more moments of not having to turn around and face him. She pours it into the mug and heads for the sofa without looking at her father.

"This is serious, Veronica."

"Dad, I get that it's serious; I've seen him. But what part of this involves me?" That's a valid question and doesn't require lying; she has no idea why Lamb wants to talk to her. "Lamb must be ecstatic that he can go after Weevil again. Does he want me to jump out of cake or something? Cause I'm really not into that kind of thing."

He sits down in the chair across from her, leaning forward in that fatherly way that always has her bracing for a lecture. "Eli has an alibi."

That, she didn't see coming. She's not even sure anyone could have thrown her a bigger curve. "Then someone's very confused and they're not the only one."

"Can you think of anyone else who has something against Logan? Enemies? Have you seen anyone unusual lately? Had Logan been acting strangely?"

She stares at him because she can practically hear the gears turning in his head. "You want to know if I broke up with Logan because he was doing drugs and if Liam Fitzpatrick put him in the hospital. You think Logan said it was Weevil because he's afraid to tell the truth. That's it, right? That's what I'm supposed to be reading between your lines."

It's his turn to stare at her. He smiles with a little too much pride as he leans back in the chair, visibly relaxing. "How far off am I?"

"Dad." The lie is right there on the tip of her tongue and it tastes like ashes in her mouth. "If Logan's doing drugs, I never knew anything about it. That's not why we broke up. I don't know what to tell you. If Logan said it was Weevil but Weevil has an alibi…someone's not telling the truth. And with those two? It's fifty-fifty on which one's lying."

"And you can't think of a reason in particular why those two would be fighting? Unless there's motive, the alibi will hold up."

"Other than breathing the same air?" She hopes he doesn't notice that she looks away from him, pretending to be watching the mug as she lifts it to her lips.

"Lamb's still going to want to talk to you."

"Of course. He wouldn't miss a chance to ruin my day. What happens if he can't break Weevil's alibi?"

"Knowing Lamb, he'll either let it drop or arrest Eli anyway, go for a lesser charge. Would you mind if I did a little poking around myself?"

"Not at all." She smiles because if she doesn't, it'll look like she has something to hide. "Sorry I can't give you more information. The last I saw Logan, when he wasn't beat up, was when I broke up with him. Anything he did between then and now is a mystery to me."

"Why did you break up with him? If you don't mind my asking." That was a private investigator question rather than a father question and she knows his mind was already puzzling over the minute details.

It wouldn't be the first time he chose the job over her and she's a little surprised to realize that she's still bitter about that. Up until the disastrous trip to New York that hadn't happened, she'd always been safe in the knowledge that she came first.

"We were fighting more and more about school, and it's not like I can just throw over studying whenever he wants me to. I got tired of trying to appease him all the time." It's roughly the truth. The sane, logical, mature truth that had little to do with reality. But it looked good on paper and she can tell that it's a reason he understands and respects. He pats her knee and smiles; his way of telling her that she made the right decision.

She wonders when he flips on the television if he wants his theory to be true so he can go after Liam Fitzpatrick or if he wants it to be true because he knows something she doesn't. The odds are even between the two possibilities. She doesn't ask because she's still too worried about giving herself away. And the question that's burning a hole in her brain isn't one her father can answer.


	4. Chapter 4

The lifeguard looks surprised when Veronica climbs out of the pool earlier than usual. She smiles and waves on the way out, mentally counting down the small window of time that her father won't question. But she has questions that need answers, even if asking them is a bad idea. Eli has an alibi, Eli's alibi is unbreakable. Lamb nearly had an aneurysm; Logan Echolls is still broken and no one is going to be held responsible. Nearly a week later, she's still trying to figure out which one of them to believe.

She sees the motorcycle stopped at an intersection and knows it's Weevil when the black helmet turns toward her and nods once. The visor's opaque, revealing none of the face inside, but she still knows. He turns right, tires squealing and bike roaring as he starts down the road. She follows.

By the time she parks and switches off her headlights, she's pretty sure this was a very bad idea. The abandoned dock warehouse isn't exactly a popular make out spot; it's a good place for bloody secrets to creep around, staying forever in the shadows. She reaches for her taser and nearly jumps out of her skin when someone knocks on her window. Breathing hard, she rolls it down and glares up at Weevil. "Thanks. I didn't really need that extra five years of my life."

There's no small talk; he's all business. "Pull into that grove of trees up ahead. Out of sight."

"Is there something wrong with this dark and scary parking space?"

"Just do it, V." He's already turning away and climbing back onto his bike, leading the way into the darkness.

"I've lost my mind," she mutters as she closes her window and puts the car back in drive. The little voice in her head is whispering that this is not the Weevil she knew, not the Weevil who took his niece Ophelia to the Winter Carnival. This is the Weevil who breaks bones and sends people to the hospital. She makes sure the taser is in her bag after parking the car.

He's barely an outline and without the subtle gleam of chrome under moonlight, she wouldn't have guessed there was another soul around. The car door closes but stays unlocked behind her just in case; she shivers a little against the wind and takes a few cautious steps toward him. He's still just Weevil.

"I hear you picked up some new moves," she says casually. There's movement in the shadows but she's relying on senses other than sight now, unable to make out anything more than the rustle of leather. She's startled when she feels him brush against her arm.

"You weren't skittish the other night," he murmurs in her ear, standing behind her. There's no mistaking his intentions. His voice is velvet seduction sliding over her skin and she wonders how she missed that before. Correction, how she managed to ignore it before.

"That was…different." She stiffens at his touch because her ex-boyfriend is lying in a hospital bed and those hands put him there.

He's pulling her with him, fingers hooked over the waist of her jeans. Leaning back against her car, he twists her around and tugs her into the vee between his legs. She reaches out to keep distance between them, her hands gripping his arms tightly. Fingers tangle in her hair and he's rough when he jerks her head back, hot breath against her cheek as he forces her close enough to whisper. "Don't make me work for it."

"Weevil." Her throat feels like sandpaper. She can't see anything but darkness around her and in him. If she says no, she can't be sure he won't ignore her and visions of the bruises on Logan's face rise up in her mind. He's stronger than she is, she can feel the hardened muscles in his arms. Also part of the new Weevil.

She lets go slowly. He doesn't relax his grip on her hair and her neck is aching from the unnatural angle. Even more slowly, she eases down onto her knees. She can almost see his face, looking down at her, and now both of his hands are in her hair. Cautiously, she reaches up to brush her fingers over the fly of his jeans, stopping at the button. She can pull the zipper down with one hand while the other slides down his leg toward her bag.

His voice is even and almost amused. "You even try to use that thing on me and I'll break more than your jaw." It's equal parts admission of guilt and terrifying threat, with an extra helping of knowing exactly what she was reaching for.

A cry of pain escapes her lips when he drags her back to her feet using his grip on her hair and spins her around to pin her against the car; her clenched fists tight and useless against her chest. Her bag is stripped away and tossed into the shadows. Tears well up in her eyes; she frantically tries to figure out what time it is and whether or not her father will start looking for her soon.

Her voice shakes, the words barely a whimper against him. "Please, don't."

"I didn't bring you here to rape you." The intensity of the anger in his voice hits her like the blow she's expecting.

She tries to go completely still, tries not to make any movement that he might consider an attack. His answer, while it's a relief that he doesn't intend to rape her, implies that there's method behind his madness. That his insistence on where she parked her car wasn't a matter of preference; that he'd known she'd come looking for him. She sees that he's watching her carefully. Just watching. She can't read the expression on his face and suddenly, she has to know. "What happened to you, Eli?"

The question must surprise him because it surprises her. All of her skills of observation can only give her the after, the symptoms and the consequences. She can't even begin to guess at what was eating away at his soul from the inside.

"Don't, V. Just don't…it doesn't mean a goddamn thing." He sounds tired, he sounds wounded. He sounds broken into battered pieces that will rip her apart if she tries to put him back together. Suddenly the death grip on her hair feels more like a desperate attempt to keep from drowning.

She opens her hands, palms down on his chest and tilts her head enough to press her lips against his. The kiss is gentle, almost chaste, and he doesn't respond. Every muscle in his body must be tense and coiled; she can feel it in the solidity of him. He shivers almost imperceptibly when she kisses him again. He leans in this time, ever so slightly, and the pressure pushing her against the car relaxes enough for her to move her arms. They're kissing slow and gentle, more like two teenagers trying to figure out how than two people who've already passed Go.

But she can't shake the fact that the hands that are messing her hair up beyond repair are the same hands that broke Logan's jaw. She wonders if he's leaving blood streaked and dripping across her skin. It's poetic in its imagery. They're both responsible for what happened; the guilt between them as hot and slick as sweat. He's MacBeth and she's his Lady. She doesn't know if the taste of blood on his lips is real or imaginary, but it turns her stomach and she pulls away.

Strong fingers leave her hair to pull her back. He's kissing her hard now and his hand is clamped down as much on her neck as her jaw. Momentary gentleness is gone and he's all razor blade edges again, slicing into her as she tries to hold on to him. The kiss breaks; his hand stays curved around her neck. His breath is warm and his lips are soft against her cheek, but his voice is jagged as a saw blade.

"You wanna say no…now's the time."

It's a warning that she's grateful for because she's so far over her head that she can't even see the surface. They've always jostled for control, always playing a game that seemed to change on a daily basis. He'd outsmart, out innuendo, and out maneuver her one week; she'd make she sure that come the next, he knew where he stood. But that was the old Weevil. She has a feeling this version doesn't follow the same rules.

"I can't," she whispers, part of her wishing perversely that she hadn't gone to the hospital. "What you did to Logan-"

He laughs bitterly but doesn't let go, his thumb making arcing strokes along the length of her neck. "You think that was about you? Don't flatter yourself, chica."

What exactly he means is beyond her and she's afraid to ask. She's afraid to know. Her palm is against his jaw and she can feel the muscles work, a symptom of a raging internal war. Other than that and the lazy half circles he's tracing down her neck, he's completely still. Just staying still, locked together in what is more struggle than embrace, is overwhelming and she can't force her mind to explain how she got here.

Everything about them is wrong. Dark alleys, abandoned warehouses; two people who just happened to collide on their way to elsewhere and, desperate to escape whatever was snapping at their heels, tumbled into the darkness together. She wonders if prison is still too fresh in his memory, if that's the why behind the restless violence she can see and feel inside him. Some animals were never meant to be caged; she's pretty sure he's one of them.

If she doesn't let go of him now, if she doesn't get back into her car and drive home to light and safety, the darkness will seep into her as well and turn her black. She has to choose between letting go and watching him drown or holding on and drowning with him. The decision is easier than she expects it to be.

His skin is warm. She knows there are lines of ink beneath her fingers and wishes she knew where each of them began and ended, makes a silent promise to learn each and every one of them so she can trace them even in complete darkness. Her lips find his again, more insistent this time, and she's soaking up his darkness with each caress of her tongue.

He doesn't ask questions. She doesn't know what she'd tell him if he did. The truth is, she's tired of swimming.


End file.
